The Touch 0f Her Hand (Highlander Heroes Book 1) Read online

  It occurred to Tess that she had nothing to lose by giving voice to one last effort to save herself. Dead now or dead later was still dead. Drawing in a quick rush of breath, she shouted again. But it was not done nearly well enough to save herself, she knew, and she was dumped to the ground before the giant and held fast by one large paw as the other yanked at the sleeve of her left arm. Tess shrieked again as the fabric was torn clean away from the shoulder of her gown. The giant pulled the ripped piece down over her wrist, leaving her arm completely bare. He then covered her mouth with the fabric, tying it at the back of her neck. Tess fought this, her finger scratching at the sleeve as it was secured so tightly, she was forced to open her mouth.

  When it was fastened to his liking, and so that Tess could not make a sound, he gripped her upper arms firmly and put his face very close to hers. “If you touch it, I will kill you.”

  CONALL MACGREGOR LED his small party over the last rise and into the green valley which would eventually take them back to Inesfree. They’d been riding hard for more than half a day. The lass’s fear had long ago given way to exhaustion and she’d slept more than half this time. Their pace had slowed considerably in the last few hours as the threat of pursuit had never materialized. Obviously, none had heard her call for help.

  Overall, Conall was pleased with this day's work. He’d expected much of Sir Arthur’s defenses but had seen little of them. The girl had made his work childishly simple by traveling beyond the secure walls. Conall had only to listen to their wooing, determine the identity of her obviously ill-suited beau, ascertain that he was no threat, and make his move. That had been the fun part. He could not resist stepping in for that kiss. As he’d watched the rendezvous, he’d been struck first by her astonishing beauty and then by the other man’s complete disinterest in her. She’d watched the man with something close to hopeful admiration; she was clearly not taken with the man, but she wanted to be.

  He would not dwell on the feel of her in his arms, the taste of her on his lips. While clearly inexperienced, she had managed to swiftly raise within him a desire of alarming proportions.

  He glanced down again at his captive. Her head was pressed into his shoulder, her hair a curtain of silk across her face. Not for the first time, he brushed aside that hair, so unusual a shade, he could not name it. 'Twas not brown or blonde, and neither was it red, but it was all of these and then, when they rode through a shaded copse of trees, it was none of these. It was long and waved as the loch should in a breeze, some tendrils lying in shorter curls around her shoulders. Once pushed aside, it revealed a face upon which men might dream, men of simple intelligence or not, perhaps men who believed that angels might be real.

  Conall was acquainted with the delicate ladies of Edinburgh, polished beauties whose attributes were displayed to the best of intention, and whose liabilities, if any, were well concealed in artifice. And, too, he knew well the country lass, bred to chores, hopeful only to maintain a mouthful of teeth until two score years, aggrieved not at all by their robust figures and sometimes unkempt ways.

  Tess of Marlefield, lately of England, was neither of these women. A slender beauty with no more artifice about her than God had given the stars, she showed a face of palest cream dotted not at all by any of God’s little imperfections. Her hands, resting limp upon her own thigh, were as delicate as might appear a spider's web, so transparent the skin, so tiny the palm that held such long fingers.

  But her eyes, Conall could not forget, soft, liquid green shining bright, large and round with so innocent a gaze. There had been a momentary pang of remorse—brief to be sure and extinguished without a thought—over his actions. Eyes as hers, with that untainted glow, were never meant to stare with such tremendous awe at someone like him.

  Below, her nose was straight and small, and further, her mouth was still, parted slightly. It was too dark to see them now, but he recalled her lips were of a pinkish hue, full and temptingly curved, their taste and texture already met, and surely not to be forgotten.

  Conall scowled and slowed his mount. Bringing the animal to a halt, he motioned for his men to close in around him and waited to resume his pace until they were in place. There were few dangers to a man of Conall's perceptions and instincts, but he was ever careful. These were the backroads, some of which belonged to warring clans, none of whom would welcome a band of night riders.

  He was unperturbed when the girl roused from her slumber. He knew she was fully awake and aware of her predicament when she went completely rigid before him. He was not a man who laughed easily. If he were, he might have done so now at the time it took her to gather resolve enough to turn and face him. Her back stiffened as she attempted to glance up at him, using her wealth of hair now as a shield. When her eyes nearly reached his, he removed his gaze from her person, settling his features into a hard mask. His broad chest captured her reacting shiver, and Conall realized that he relished her fright. Fright was an easy-to-obtain impetus to acquiescence.

  He did not look at her, but as she was trying to sit more upright in the saddle, Conall tightened his arm around her middle and drew her straight up against his chest. She stiffened but remained still. After another mile or so, when she did not struggle against him or the fabric that surely was most uncomfortable across her mouth, Conall reached into her hair and untied the knot at her nape.

  With slow and careful movements, she pulled the sleeve away from her face.

  “Dinna scream or you’ll be dumped from the nearest crag,” he warned.

  She was silent for quite some time before she dared to ask, “Who are you?"

  He said nothing,

  "Why have you taken me?" she persisted.

  Conall did not respond.

  "I know of your intentions," she told him then.

  No, he was quite sure she did not. "And what do you think they be?"

  "To kill me, of course."

  "For what purpose?"

  "Why should I care? I shall be too dead to consider your mad reasoning."

  Conall let another silence surround her until he was quite sure it gnawed at her.

  "What plausible reason could you have to kill me, a complete stranger?"

  "I have no intention of killing you. Not that I wouldn't if warranted."

  He felt her consider this, felt the tension grip her and was both amazed and intrigued by the squaring of her thin shoulders.

  "My father shall not ransom me. You must know that."

  "'Tis no a ransom I seek."

  "What then?"

  "Marlefield."

  "That is not mine to give."

  "But it does become your mate's upon your marriage," he informed or reminded her, not at all sure to what the lass might have been privy.

  She was silent, consuming this.

  "You would kill me that Alain may not have Marlefield?"

  "I mean to have it myself." He did not tell her that it was rightfully his.

  Conall knew the moment the implication of this was understood, when a small sound, akin to a sob, escaped her.

  Another long silence.

  "I would kill myself before I would wed you."

  "That, lass, I should never allow my betrothed to do."

  CHAPTER 2

  When Sir Arthur heard the news of his daughter's abduction, he roared with enough volume to be heard clear to Edinburgh. His huge paw of a hand sliced through the air to slash across Alain Sinclair’s sheepish face with enough force to topple the chair upon which he sat, sending the young man sprawling onto the floor of the castle steward’s room.

  "You sniveling, belly-crawling coward! What in God's name was she doing outside the walls?"

  "She requested a meeting, sir," Alain answered, shaking off the effects of the laird's assault though not yet rising to his feet. "I thought it unwise to leave her awaiting my presence alone. Of course, I answered her summons," this, defensively, shifting blame.

  "Of course you met her, " Sir Arthur sneered, his dark eyes narrowed
to slits of derision. "What you should have done, you priggish snob, was to come to me with news of her dereliction."

  "I'd thought," Alain persisted, dabbing at his bloodied lip with a square of silk, "to advise my own betrothed of the perils of so foolish an endeavor. Forgive my impudence, Sir Arthur, but your daughter is willful and left too much to her own machinations, well in need of a yoke of control."

  "Well, what is it, my good man?" Sir Arthur asked, placing his heavy hands upon the steward's desk, leaning down to where Alain still sat. "Is she your betrothed or my daughter? In your pitiful arguments, you cannot have it both ways!"

  But Alain Sinclair, though wary of Sir Arthur's violent bent, did not fear his position; Sir Arthur was more desirous of a husband for Lady Tess than Alain was of his troublesome daughter's drafty Scottish castle.

  "It is her stubbornness, her untoward willfulness which now has her lost," Alain observed and finally came to his feet, brushing off the effect of violence upon his fastidious person.

  "Lost? Nay, Tess is not lost, you fool. She is merely in the hands of that ever present thorn in my side, MacGregor!" He was working himself—again—into another fine fury.

  He glanced down at the rock in his hand. It had been found tossed into the castle yard and bore, on one side, the blood red wax and crest of the MacGregor.

  Sir Arthur’s lip curled upward. "I am well aware of the risks—indeed, the improbability—of regaining her by force. I need to know what the MacGregor's plans are for her. It is unlikely that he holds her simply to ruin her. A shamed daughter is a hindrance but would not break me. MacGregor must know this."

  Sir Arthur paced thoughtfully back and forth behind the roughhewn desk. "Murdering Tess, likewise, would gain him naught, as I’d not long mourn a child I barely know. So, what is it he seeks? Marlefield for Tess?" Sir Arthur laughed briefly but viciously. "Then the man has done little investigation. Not even for my daughter would I sacrifice Marlefield. Know your enemy," he lectured, shaking a finger at Alain. "Obviously, MacGregor knows me not at all."

  "But then," Alain dared to interject, "Marlefield does become the property of her husband upon her marriage."

  "That is not common knowledge," Sir Arthur informed him and waved a dismissive hand. "'Twas all an attempt to make my taking of Marlefield seem not so dastardly a deed after all. Hence Tess’s betrothal to a fine son of Scotland such as yourself. The guardian of Scotland and Edward himself proposed the match. Our English sovereign has ample respect for your sire."

  "Which lined your purse and padded his army, no doubt,” Alain guessed correctly. "I must ask, what if MacGregor has come by this knowledge? What if he has already married Tess?" A grimace contorted his pretty features as he recalled the way Tess had so innocently responded to the brute's kiss. It sustained Alain only to remember that she'd thought it was him she was kissing.

  "I know my daughter," Sir Arthur proclaimed, thumping his chest, "and if there is one thing I have instilled in the silly chit, it is loyalty. She'll not betray me."

  "But what if she has?" Alain raised a brow.

  There was only a slight pause. "Then it is unfortunate that my daughter must die as well as MacGregor."

  "And if she manages not to wed him?"

  Sir Arthur chewed the inside of his cheek. "I begin to think that perhaps we should not hold to chance the strength of Tess’s will, after all." He met Alain's eyes with his own cold ones. "I fear that so long as MacGregor holds Tess, Marlefield is at risk."

  "Thus," Alain concluded, a hint of angry disbelief in his voice, "Tess must die in any case."

  "Do not despair, Sinclair." Arthur smiled without emotion. "Surely, there are other heiresses available to suit your purposes, mayhap even one who will turn a blind eye to your proclivities, eh?”

  IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT when they finally reached Godit’s Rise, the ridge overlooking Inesfree. In the flattering moonlight, Conall could appreciate that Inesfree was a beautiful castle. Modern and indestructible, it boasted a tower keep in each of the four corners, a bailey larger than even Marlefield's and peopled by survivors, their hardiness bred of a massacre. Inesfree and its village housed nearly three hundred souls, less than two score of these MacGregors, though Munro had done his best to wipe them out completely. It had taken Conall several years to reclaim his clan. The MacDonnell of Glengarry, Inesfree's previous chieftain, had taken pity on the horrified boy he'd been all those nights and years ago. But MacDonnell was old, his own clan small and ineffective for the war that Munro had begun. And so, the revenge he’d sought had been put aside.

  Conall had learned much under the tutelage of the MacDonnell, had become invaluable enough to have become their chieftain upon the old MacDonnell's death two years ago, and had discovered new depths of forbearance. He'd waited nigh on a dozen years to reclaim what belonged to him. And there was more waiting to be done.

  Many years ago, he'd returned to the home of his father and found that Munro had not abandoned the keep at all but had instead claimed it as his own. What few had survived the butchery had come to Inesfree in Glengarry with Conall, taking strength from a boy who'd seen his clan murdered and would one day, they knew, avenge them.

  Gently nudging his steed's flank, Conall descended Godit’s Rise, eager to finish tonight's business. The girl's fear had given way to exhaustion and she slept again in his arms, her head resting in a niche between his shoulder and chin.

  At the gates of Inesfree, Conall's captain, John Cardmore, called up to the gatekeepers that their laird had returned and in short order they raised the portcullis and the party led their horses over the timber of the bridge.

  John Cardmore had been a constant at Conall’s side since the massacre at Marlefield. He had made it his solemn vow to support Conall’s quest for the vengeance that was rightly his, requiring Conall to do it wisely, sparing all innocents. However, the intervening years had forced them to expend their energy instead on the war for Scotland’s freedom, and personal revenges lost a bit of their consequence when compared to the grander picture.

  Inside the bailey, Conall was glad for the late hour, with none about to question yet the presence of his guest. There would be time enough for that later. He dismounted in one smooth motion, holding her still in his arms. As she began to rouse, he set her down on her feet. Her small hands reached for and gripped tight his forearms as she steadied herself and woke completely.

  Conall owed her no explanations and so offered none. He grabbed her wrist and, leaving his men to their duties, began pulling her along behind him, through the bailey and into the keep. All was quiet within, the household settled down for the night. Conall moved swiftly but stayed to the edges of the hall, avoiding the bodies sleeping audibly upon the floor, most near to the hearth at the far interior of the room.

  "You cannot force me to marry you," the girl cried as they entered a long corridor at the back of the hall. He dragged her down a flight of damp stone steps, dimly lit with fading torches, and into the chapel at the eastern end of the castle, sparsely furnished with a crude altar and several pews.

  Conall pushed Tess of Marlefield down onto the pew closest to the altar.

  "Aye, but here we are, lass," he said, leaning over her, his face inches from hers. "Do you think I visit the chapel tonight to pray for my soul?"

  "I am quite sure your soul is beyond the hope of prayers," she responded before she thought better of it.

  But Conall only smiled, a glint in his eye. "Exactly."

  Within minutes, a small, square man entered the room from a narrow door in the east wall, pushed inside by the hand of one of Conall’s soldiers. "Ah, here is our good cleric now,” Conall intoned.

  "What is this about, my lord?" Asked the sleepy eyed priest, his untidy robes and mantle telling one and all that he'd been rudely jostled from his bed and into his clothes.

  "A wedding, Father," crowed Conall. "You finally get to perform at my nuptials."

  The priest was taken aback, his little rheumy eyes dart
ing back and forth between Conall and Tess.

  "But the license and the banns—and who is this girl?"

  "Here are the papers," Conall supplied, pulling out a rolled sheaf from his tunic, splaying them out upon the altar. "Here," he said and pointed at the vellum, "is the signature of my good friend, the bishop. All is in order. And this is my bride, Tess Munro of Marlefield." He swept an arm wide to indicate his reluctant, scowling bride.

  "Yes, yes. Everything seems to be in order. Let us proceed then. Come along, Lady Tess," the priest said and moved to a position at the front of the altar.

  Conall went to Tess, took up her wrist, and pulled her to her feet. "Come, bride."

  She followed, apparently meek, and Conall spared only a moment's thought for her lack of resistance. No sobs, no cries of outrage, no pleading with the good Father Ioan for salvation. Mutely, she stood at his side.

  The little man began to drone on in Gaelic the beginning of the marriage ceremony. In his mind, Conall was already picturing his victorious return to Marlefield.

  And the death of Arthur Munro.

  "...and do you, Conall MacGregor, chief to the MacGregors and lord of Inesfree and all the MacDonnells, take this woman, Tess of Marlefield, to be your wife, to ..."

  "Aye. Move on," clipped Conall. He was then aware—triumphantly, he admitted to himself—of her stiffening form. She now knew his identity and her response was as he'd expected. Any horror she might have previously felt was now enflamed as she realized she was about to wed MacGregor the Murderer.

  The priest frowned but continued, asking for the same response from Tess.

  "She does." Conall supplied curtly.

  "My lord, I need to have her response."

  Silence.

  Conall squeezed her wrist.

  Silence.

  Squeezed harder. And still, silence.

  Growling, Conall stalked away from the altar to the far corner of the chapel, pulling Tess once again behind him to the door from which they had earlier entered. He spun around, whipping her about to stand facing him.